What You Mean
by Mlee.Write
Summary: I've been re-watching the show from the beginning. This is my take on all those great Jisbon moments. What if something more was brewing? Set S1 onward.
1. Chapter 1

Title: What You Mean

Author: Mlee

Rating: T into light M

Spoilers: Through current season

Summary: I've been re-watching the Mentalist from the beginning. My take on all those great Jisbon moments. What if more had happened? AU. Fluff (mostly).

For everyone who was seriously bummed about the S6 Spoilers (not mentioned in this story) and all the late starts.

Red Hair, Silver Tape

Teresa Lisbon reached for the bottle of Excedrin she kept in the cup holder of the SUV. Someone, likely Rigsby (Cho didn't have the sense of humor and Grace wouldn't dare) had written 'Take Two In Case of Jane' in thick black letters on the bottle.

She popped the top and shook out two pills; they went down sticky and bitter and she chased them with a swig of crappy gas station coffee.

She stepped out into the dusty heat, Cho beside her, Jane behind. The minute she saw the body in the body in the ditch she felt a pang of remorse. No matter how many corpses she'd seen in her career, they always affected her. She looked down at the girl, far too young to be lying there. A life cut down. Wasted.

"Do we know who she was?" she asked the sheriff. He'd introduced himself, but she'd been half listening. Cho would have taken note of the name.

"Nope. Looks familiar though," he said.

She sighed quietly. Not exactly helpful.

Jane was standing on the edge of the improvised pit, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. She could feel the sun baking down on her through the fabric of her jacket, pin-pricks of sweat blossoming on her neck. She wondered how he could possibly stand the three piece suit he was wearing.

She glanced at him as he studied the body, his keen eyes taking everything in. She knew he was seeing more than she was, that he was some kind of a savant. He'd closed cases by seeing what others had missed, piecing together clues that no one else even noticed. She was willing to put up with his nonsense for that reason alone—because he might well find that poor young girl's killer and give her family some solace—but she resented his methods.

His cheap theatrics and over-the-top reveals were unnecessary. Teresa knew other cops, investigators, agents who were so skilled at observation that it felt unnatural. They made the connections, put the case together, documented each hunch and detail. They didn't grandstand. They didn't alienate the local police. They didn't humiliate suspects. They didn't get a man—okay, a murderous pedophile—shot by his wife.

Even as she was telling the sheriff that Jane was part of the deal, she could tell she was going to regret it. He was going to pull some stunt that would piss everyone off, but reveal the killer.

She turned around, watching her blond consultant challenge the sheriff to a game of rock, paper, scissors to prove how smart he was. Her lips quirked cynically. Showboating. Unnecessary. Pain-in-the-ass.

At least he was pretty to look at.

XXX

She was going to kill him. She was going to kill Patrick Jane and lose her job, and her badge, and her freedom and it would be worth it.

"You hypnotized her didn't you?" Even as the words left her mouth she felt Cho shifting away from her.

Guilty bastard, she thought.

Jane turned around to look her. "I certainly did not," he replied sincerely. She had learned that whenever Jane spoke sincerely he was lying. His only honest moments came hidden behind glib remarks.

She stared.

"Okay, well, yes, I did hypnotize her," he admitted. "But…"

"No buts," she snapped, feeling her blood pressure rise. "It's unprofessional, it's illegal, and it's totally out bounds."

Didn't he realize the kind of precedent he was setting? All this trickery led to sloppy police work, to detectives who felt they were above the rules. The rules were there _for a reason_.

"That's what I told him," Cho said.

"I was going to say you had nothing to do with it," Jane replied quickly.

Great, now she knew he'd lie to cover the team. Just what she needed.

Even as Jane skirted away, avoiding another lecture, looking duly ashamed (a farce, she knew), Teresa grabbed Cho by his lapels.

"You allow him to a pull that stunt again and you'll be showing visitors around the State House in a stupid hat," she snapped.

Cho, duly chastened, returned to his work.

She turned and watched Jane's ass as he fled her wrath. He was like a naughty kid who was a bad influence on everyone else.

She'd break him, she thought, dialing Rigsby. She'd kept her brothers in line, she could get Jane to behave as well. He just needed a little tough love.

XXX

Jane was grinning as he found a quiet alcove of the police station and fed some change into a vending machine. Lisbon was _pissed_.

He couldn't help but delight in winding her up. She was so cool, so buttoned down. She was the prefect Catholic school girl, obeying the rules to the letter. She needed to have fun.

Okay, granted it was a little unethical hypnotizing Raquel like that. But it was much more unethical that she'd kept important evidence from the police.

What did they expect him to do? The girl had been lying to them; everyone knew it. They were just going to let her go? Let her keep some vital information to herself? That was stupidity, plain and simple.

Besides, he thought, running his hand through his hair, even if Lisbon didn't agree with his methods, she couldn't argue with the results.

He didn't think the boyfriend was the killer, but that wasn't really the point. Raquel had lied to his face, in a dismissive, bored tone that just begged to be taught a lesson. She was like the snooty rubes who'd come to carnival, looking down their noses at him, a carnie kid. They'd left with their wallets lighter and their expressions humbler.

Jane pressed the button for a candy bar and it fell to the bottom of the machine with a clunk. He'd hide in Lisbon's bag so she'd find it later, when she was tired and hungry and really needed the sugar rush.

She'd appreciate him.

Eventually.

Women usually did.

XXX

"Oh, I didn't bother to formulate plan. I knew she'd stop him." Jane lied to Rigsby easily enough, but his heart was still pounding.

_Holy shit_.

Lisbon cut them off, barking orders, looking like she hadn't just tackled a suspect in the middle of the street.

Jane couldn't help but be awed. She had to weigh one hundred ten pounds, maybe one fifteen. The suspect had been armed, likely. At least it was the safe assumption. And she'd just barreled into him, like a hockey player checking someone into the boards.

_Jesus_.

She was tough. Fierce.

He hadn't had a plan. He'd been woolgathering, bored, honestly. He expected the takedown to happen safely away from him. Truthfully he'd probably have stood there and watched the guy run.

He hadn't expected Hurricane Teresa to show up.

He realized he was staring at her and turned away.

She was much more interesting than he was giving her credit for. A Catholic school girl with brass knuckles, maybe.

He tugged at his vest.

It bore thinking on.

XXX

Teresa felt the sense of satisfaction that came with knowing that she about to book her suspect. Hector was scum, the type of man who beat his girlfriend, but feigned grief when she was brutally slaughtered. No way was he okay that she'd been going to college, about to escape him. The pattern of abuse was so clear—so familiar to her. Hector was guilty.

She could tell Jane wasn't convinced.

It bothered her. It shouldn't have, but it did. When she came right down to it, Jane wasn't a cop. She'd seen plenty of men like Hector beat up and brutalize their girlfriends, killing them in the end. He didn't know what it was like to work those cases day after day. He still expected every crime to be some elaborate mystery, begging to be unraveled, revealed with a showy ta-da!

In her experience, most murders clear cut, stinking of despair and selfishness and greed.

"Good, that's good," Jane told her, a tad dismissively. "You've got more than enough evidence."

He paused, dug in his pocket. "Oops, I forgot something," he muttered, pulling out his phone. He opened and dialed.

She shook her head in exasperation. She recognized the beginning of his big reveal, his elaborate set up. He had something, but instead of telling her what it was like a normal human being he was going to make it into a spectacle.

"Okay," she sighed. "Tell me what you found."

"Telling you won't work," he replied, confirming her hunch. "I have to show you." The person on the other end of his line picked up. "Hi," Jane said. "I made a booking for two for this afternoon. Could you put us on the terrace? It's more romantic."

Her eyebrows rose. What the hell? He was taking her to dinner?

_Romantic?_

For one silly moment she wondered if he was going to say he was sorry for the whole hypnosis debacle. But this was Jane. Jane didn't apologize. And if he did he certainly wouldn't take her to dinner.

So why did her pulse race, just a tiny bit?

"Yeah, Patrick," he said. "That will be lovely. See you then."

He was reading her face, and she knew, to her mortification, that he knew what she was thinking.

"Don't fret," he said with that charming grin. "I wouldn't seduce you over a meal. That would be very…sophomoric."

She swallowed, embarrassed, feeling her neck flush just a tiny bit.

"I didn't think that you were trying to seduce me," she said.

"C'mon," he drawled. "How could that thought not have entered your head?"

Arrogant shit, she thought, but she found herself grinning just a little bit.

"You're denial that it did intrigues me," he continued.

He looked so pleased with himself.

She realized she should have said something about professionalism for the millionth time, but it wouldn't have sunk in. Instead she said, "Bite me."

He seemed to like that—to grin a little wider.

She didn't say anything when he ushered her to the car, his hand warm on the small of her back. The flirting was a bad idea, she knew, but he was handsome and charming and she was only human.

Of course, he was also a con man.

And she was a cop. She knew better.

She cranked the AC the minute she closed the car door, telling herself that it was the midday heat, not her embarrassment boiling up inside her.

"What's the address?" she asked, pointedly not checking to see if he was still smiling.

He was. She could just tell.

XXX

_Oh, Lisbon_, Jane thought with a sense of wicked delight. The look on her face, a mix of intrigue and absolute horror had been just too good to ignore.

Of course he was only playing with her, but he hadn't expected her to be so open with her thoughts. She was practically broadcasting them out loud.

Now I'm wondering what the hell Jane is doing.

_Now I'm thinking about dinner with Jane._

_Now I'm thinking about sleeping with Jane._

_Now I feel a huge wave of misplaced guilt for thinking of sleeping with Jane._

_Now I'm putting on my boss-pants and acting serious._

She was just too funny sometimes. Everyone wondered about their coworkers in bed, at least if they were reasonably attractive. You spent enough time with people and your thoughts wandered. Hell, Rigsby and Van Pelt had been staring at each other with googley-eyed lust since the redhead had started.

Back in his younger days he'd have made a pass at Van Pelt. She was his type, young, a little too sweet, gorgeous. Now he found her naïve and honestly a little irritating. She was fun to rile up though.

He wouldn't have gone for Lisbon. Too much work to break down all those defenses, not worth the effort.

Now that he knew she'd thought about the two of them in flagrante delicto… Now that he'd seen that flash of curiosity in her eyes…

Well now he was thinking about them in flagrante delicto. Couldn't help it actually. Nature. Animal instincts. All that. Lisbon. Missionary style. Lots of 'Oh, Gods.' Intense guilt afterword.

He had her pegged. Meh.

She was driving with her eyes glued to the road, hands at two and ten, jaw clenched.

He couldn't help but chuckle a little. He'd really gotten her back up.

He saw her expression change when they pulled up in front of the motel. She was still expecting a restaurant, not a sting operation. He knew he'd already pressed her buttons enough for one day, but he couldn't resist.

They got out of the car, doors slamming.

"Okay," Lisbon demanded. "What's the gag?"

He gestured the anonymous motel doors, quiet little sentinels all in a row.

The devil inside of him took over. "This is what I would do if I was going to seduce you. A lonely motel and straight to the point." He looked into her eyes. "Teresa, let's make love."

She looked at him, deadpan, her expression not amused and her eyes intense.

He felt himself grin, then falter.

Intense. Strong arms, wrestling him for dominance. Unyielding and demanding, dark brown hair clinging to her back with sweat. Lean, taught body above his.

He swallowed thickly, feeling everything backfire in his brain.

For the first time since…since then… he felt his libido kick in, his blood rush, his mind flip through all the possibilities.

It happened in less than a second, and clearly she didn't see it because she was still standing there staring at him, not punching him in the face.

"Right," he said with a sigh, acting as though she was just a spoil sport and he was just playing. "Walk this way."

They had a trap to set. A killer to catch. He had better things to do.

These…feelings were inevitable. Biology.

It didn't mean anything.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Red Badge**_

Teresa had a sick, twisting feeling in her gut. Her palms were sweating and her fingers felt numb. She could feel her heart in her throat.

This was as close to panic as she allowed herself to get—a shivering, nauseated mess on the inside. On the outside she was fine, collected and cool. She hadn't lost control of her emotions since the day of her mother's funeral.

It didn't take long for her father to relapse, for him to start beating her and the boys. She learned at thirteen that panic didn't solve anything at all. You had to push it those feelings of helplessness and terror into a dark, bottomless well inside you and proceed rationally. That's how people survived. That's how she survived.

But now, a dangerous phantom terror rose up inside her, threatening to crack her perfect shell. _How did someone lose an entire day?_

Every time she thought back to Tuesday night she could only recall a few hazy details, then nothing. For a terrible second she wondered if she'd taken up drinking like her father and managed to just forget about it somehow, but that was crazy. That didn't make sense. How can a sober person have a black out?

She'd told Dr. Carmen repeatedly that nearly being shot by Sheriff Hardy hadn't traumatized her. She believed it then. Sure it had been scary, but it wasn't the first time someone had pointed a gun at her. You pushed the fear down into that well and kept moving on.

Now she wondered if she'd snapped, if that well was so full of terrible memories that it was seeping ugly black water into her brain and poisoning her.

Without meaning to Teresa felt bile rise in her throat.

Moments after she knew she failed the polygraph test, she pushed her way into the ladies room and vomited.

XXX

As far as Jane was concerned, the world was better without William Mcteer. If Lisbon had shot the child-rapist, which he doubted she had, then she'd done the world a service. If Minnelli and Bosco hadn't been so consumed with their self-righteous ideas of justice, they would have lost the fingerprint results and just moved on.

Jane did understand, however, that Lisbon would be traumatized by not knowing what had happened that Tuesday night. The idea of spending an entire lifetime not knowing if she'd killed someone—or some_thing,_ as Mcteer didn't really qualify as a person—would haunt her forever.

Hypnotizing her was the least he could do. He assumed that once she was in a light trance she'd realize that she'd had a few too many drinks and spent the night asleep on her couch. Besides, it was an excellent reason to get inside her house and snoop around her stuff.

"It's a mess," Lisbon said apologetically, as she let him into her place.

Her apartment smelled like cinnamon candles.

"Not at all," he assured her. "It's nice."

Jane knew she hadn't decorated her apartment. She'd never choose taupe walls.

"I like those pictures," he commented, folding his hands behind his back.

"Those are mostly from the last tenants," she said, confirming his suspicions.

She was a ball of anxiety, her hands fidgeting, her stance indicating that she was just as ready to punch someone in the face as she was to run away. Flight or fight.

He glanced at the picture of her brothers, three mop-haired skater boys refusing to smile for the camera. She'd had her hands full with them, he was sure.

"W-where we gonna do this?" she asked, pacing behind him.

He let her work off some of her energy.

"Ah. Interesting," he commented, glancing at her collection of CDs. It was more or less the best of 1997. He fought the urge to chuckle.

"Let's do it," she pushed. "Let's go."

"No," he said, still perusing.

Her voice went up an octave. "No?"

"No, I'm not going to hypnotize you," he confirmed. "Lisbon, you're too stressed."

She glared at him. "Are you kidding me?"

He put his hands on her shoulders and could feel the tension humming in her small body. "Shh, it's okay," he assured her.

Touch was a part of hypnosis, the connection a vital part of relaxing a person into a trance. Jane had casually touched countless people over the course of his career, but somehow putting his hands on Lisbon's shoulders felt strangely intimate. Likely because she was his boss, and because she kept an impenetrable bubble of personal space around her. Also he was in her home, her private space. It all felt very, very personal.

He kept eye contact with her, not allowing her look away. "I would have to make all the stress leave your body, maybe make you count down from one hundred," he told her, keeping his voice mild and soothing. "Ninety-nine, ninety-eight…We'd go round and round…ninety-four, ninety-three…"

He saw when her pale green eyes started to unfocus, felt her shoulders droop a little against his hands. Just the idea that he wasn't going to hypnotize her, wasn't gong to be picking apart her thoughts, had relieved her to the point where her body forced itself to relax.

He waved his hand in front of her face. Her eyes didn't leave his, didn't track the motion of his hand. "Listen Lisbon, all the stress would have to melt away. You'd have to feel calm, relaxed and very safe. It's just about impossible. I'm not hypnotizing you, Lisbon, it's not going to happen, so you can just relax."

Her lips parted and her eyelids began to droop.

He kept going, kept the rhythm of his words even and calm. "You are not falling into a deep, relaxing trance state."

As he said he the final words her eyelids fluttered closed.

"Sleep," Jane commanded gently.

Lisbon's head dropped down to her chest and she sank forward slowly. He caught her small body against his chest, absentmindedly patting her hair. "Good," he soothed.

With gentle encouragement he led her to a chair in her living room, helping her settle into it comfortably.

Lisbon was such a dynamic, fierce woman that sometimes he forgot how tiny she really was. He could have easily carried her to the chair had she really been asleep. It was a strange juxtaposition, all that fire and determination inside such a delicate person. Her wrists felt fragile and bird-like in his hands.

He glanced at the unpacked boxes lining one wall, an indication that the apartment wasn't really her home so much as the CBI, and for some reason he felt a pang of sadness for her. He knew she devoted herself to avenging the wronged, to bringing villains to justice, to fixing the broken. He knew she did it because when it had mattered most, she hadn't been able to repair her own shattered family. He understood that drive, the same obsessive need he fed, and for a just a moment, he wished her peace.

Then he thought about the fact that she was completely vulnerable, and he couldn't help himself.

"But first," he asked. "Sometimes you dance to that Spice Girls CD, don't you?"

She smiled a little. "Yeah," she murmured, rewarding him with a little wiggle.

He grinned. "I thought so."

If he'd asked her something truly invasive, something about her sexual preferences perhaps, she'd have snapped out of the trance and slugged him. She wasn't really embarrassed about the dancing, but it was a nice little tidbit to file away and torment her with later.

"About Tuesday," he continued, "you can watch the whole thing like it's a movie. Every detail is in focus, you can zoom into any moment you want. You can fast-forward, rewind…you are in total control, okay?"

He knew it was important to build an aura of safety around her or this wouldn't work. Lisbon didn't trust easily, which made it all the more important that she understand she had total control of the situation.

"Okay," she mumbled. Her voice was soft and somnolent.

"What do you see?" Jane asked.

"I'm finishing up the form forty-ones on the Milbank case. I feel…hungry because I skipped lunch. The new guy in the mail room is _hot_," Lisbon muttered.

The new guy in the mailroom? The dumb-looking muscly one? "Is he?" Jane asked, surprised.

"Yeah," Lisbon confirmed enthusiastically.

Honestly, he thought she had better taste than that, more refined. Anyway.

"Let's fast forward a little. Later in the day you're about to leave CBI," he coached.

"Van Pelt is working late…she's a hard worker…she might do well if she manages not to sleep with Rigsby."

"Where do you go now?"

Her face scrunched up, a line forming between her eyebrows. "I…uh… Home?"

"Do you? Where do you go, Lisbon?" he asked.

She began to stir, her mind rebelling against the trance. Her expression was pained.

He stood, crouching above her, his hand resting on the arm of her chair. He was prepared to wake her immediately if necessarily.

She squirmed as if she were in pain. "To my car, it's low on gas." Her voice had a fearful edge to it.

"It's okay, you're in a trance state, everything's okay," he assured her.

She flinched. "I can't," she said, pleading.

He raised his hand, ready to wake her, but not giving up entirely. "What do you see? Where do you go?"

Her face was twisting in pain, fear. "Blank…I see a blank screen. I don't…I don't know where I went. I can't remember. _I don't know where I went_."

She started to curl away from him in pain and fear, and he pressed his hand to her forehead bringing her back to full consciousness. Her skin was flushed.

She glanced up at him, her eyes wide and afraid.

"That's a little weird," he said, meaning to sound reassuring and failing miserably. He sat back down with a sigh.

Lisbon stood up immediately, putting space between them. "I thought you were the best," she said, her voice back to its normal, I'm-not-upset-by-anything tone. "I want my money back."

"Hmm. Yeah." The gears in his mind were turning. She should be able to remember anything that happened, unless she was physically incapable of doing so. That thought troubled him. Had she been rendered unconscious?

He knew then that she didn't kill Mcteer. She would have had a memory of it, no matter how badly she'd want to suppress it. Lisbon had been incapacitated on Tuesday night, and that bothered him. Profoundly.

"It's interesting," he said, "isn't it?" The question was who would want to kill Mcteer and frame Lisbon? The suspect pool was limited, certainly.

She turned away from him as he stood. "Yeah, interesting. Well, thanks for trying," she said, suddenly very interested in the case notes she had pinned to her living room wall. "You probably have somewhere to go."

"Well, I'm not going to give up that easily," he told her. There was more they could do. They would figure it out.

Her voice surprised him when she said, "I can count on you not to tell anybody about this, right? On the team?"

When she turned back to him, her eyes were wet and red.

Suddenly he wanted very much to comfort her. He'd seen Lisbon stone faced as she stared at the bodies of small children. He'd seen her tell grieving husbands that their wives had been viciously killed.

He'd never seen her cry. Not once.

It was almost disturbing. And it made him sad.

"Oh, Lisbon," he said, putting a hand on her back. He expected her to turn into his arm, and he would hold her, just for a moment, but she flinched away.

"I just need you to leave. Please." Her voice was wet with tears.

"Okay," he said, "it's going to be okay. It's going to be fine, alright? I promise."

She sniffed, but didn't say anything.

Jane never promised justice or answers because it was too easy to fail and renege on those promises. He never told the grieving wives and daughters and brothers that he would find the killer for them, because sometimes he couldn't. He didn't believe in lying that way anymore, offering empty comfort. But he promised Lisbon it would be okay, because she was a good person who didn't deserve this, and he meant it.

He left her there, miserable and terrified, and he drove around the block a few times.

He let his fingers drum on the steering wheel of the Citroën while he thought. The key to finding out who killed Lisbon was finding out who wanted Mcteer dead, and that was a long list.

Why did someone kill a child molester? Certainly not for the usual reasons, not because of love or jealousy or greed. No, whoever had killed William Mcteer had done it because they'd been profoundly wronged by him—likely one of his victims or the family member of one. And they'd blamed Lisbon, why? Because they had a vendetta against her?

He turned into the parking lot of a strip mall that featured a Starbucks and a Dunkin Donuts at opposite ends of the building. Donuts first. He ordered the chocolatiest, most caloric pastry they had. And a bear claw, for her breakfast tomorrow.

Then he walked to the Starbucks.

No, Lisbon had seen Mcteer serve time, so the reason she was likely framed was that she was convenient. Perhaps the murderer believed that St. Teresa would never serve time for killing scum like Mcteer. Perhaps they believed it was a victimless crime.

In his heart, Jane suspected that the real murderer wasn't a bad person. This was someone who felt guilt, and grief, and believed in justice. This was someone who would be deeply troubled and ashamed that they were letting Lisbon take the fall for them.

That was the key in finding the killer.

Jane got to the front of the line and ordered a tea for himself and a large caramel macchiato for Lisbon.

Then he took the pastries and the steaming beverages back to his car and drove to her apartment.

He'd been gone twenty-five minutes, plenty of time for a good, healthy cry.

When she answered the door, Lisbon's face was splotchy, but she'd collected herself. "What Jane?" she asked hoarsely.

He resisted the urge to try and hug her, instead holding out the coffee. "I have an idea," he said. "But you're probably not going to like it."

XXX

After Lisbon's frankly Emmy-worthy melt-down at the CBI, Jane met her back to her apartment.

She scrubbed her hands over her face after she let him in. "That window is going to cost a fortune," she moaned.

"Meh, you needed something dramatic to sell it," he replied. "Besides, do you really think the CBI uses the best glass in the industry?"

She blew out a frustrated sigh. "I was so embarrassed."

"Why?" Jane asked. "You shook everyone up. They'll be more careful of your temper now."

Lisbon crossed her arms over her stomach. "Great," she said dryly. "So what do we do now?"

Jane pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Well, to really sell it we have to make it look like you're genuinely having a breakdown."

"Which means?" she asked testily.

"Booze and pills, usually," he remarked. "Do you have either?"

She rubbed a tired hand across her eyes. "I have some whiskey in the cabinet above the sink. I think I still have some Vicodin from when I had an abscessed tooth. I didn't take any of it."

He quirked an eyebrow. Only Lisbon would muscle through extreme dental pain. "Good," he said. "Let's make it look like you had a bender. Also you can't just sit on your couch and wait for this guy to show up. You have to look like you've gone over the edge."

She was pacing the living room, irritated. "I don't know what that looks like," she said.

"Like you don't care anymore," he said. "If I wasn't here, if you were all alone, and you'd had a few drinks, what would you be doing?"

She turned and glared at him. "Nothing. Watching TV."

He rolled his eyes. "Liar."

He started making his way toward her stairs.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

"To find your jersey," he said. "The one you sleep in."

Her face flushed. "Don't you dare."

She pointed at the stairs. "You sit right there. You do not go snooping around my bedroom."

He grinned. "Afraid I'll find a Playgirl under the mattress?"

"Jane," she warned. She looked exhausted.

Suddenly he felt a little bad. But he really did want to see that jersey again, and only partially for selfish reasons.

"You'd be in your pajamas, listening to that Spice Girls CD," he said. "So go change."

A muscle in her jaw ticked. "How did you know…" She sighed. "Never mind. _Ass_."

She marched past him, up the stairs to change. "You better not be enjoying this," she shouted down after him.

"Of course not," he replied, lying.

When she came back downstairs she was tugging on the hem of her jersey. He pretended not to notice that it barely covered her ass. She had incredible legs, long and shapely for a woman her height.

"Now what?" she asked self-consciously.

Jane studied her. Still too put-together. He reached out and tousled her hair.

"Hey!" she flinched.

"Hold still," he muttered, then cupping her chin used his thumbs to smear her mascara, just a little. "There, now you look like a wreck. And you might want to have a few drinks to loosen up. And so you've got booze on your breath."

She bit her lip. "Minnelli and Bosco really think I've had a melt down?"

"Yup," Jane confirmed, wandering into her kitchen to find the whiskey. He poured her some into a mug. "I sold it hook, line and sinker. We know the killer is likely someone in law enforcement—that perfect triangle grouping on Mcteer's chest. All we need is for word to get around CBI that you've lost your marbles."

She took the mug and sipped, wincing. "Great."

He glanced around her apartment. "Now, Lisbon, let's trash the place a little."

XXX

Jane had relished messing up her things. He'd also been strangely insistent on the jersey. The man was weird sometimes.

She sipped her whiskey and glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty p.m.

From the stairs Jane said, "I'm bored."

"I'm freezing and you won't let me put on a robe," she muttered.

"Robe wouldn't have the same effect," he called. "Can I go upstairs and take a nap?"

"_No_."

The thought of him rifling through her bedside drawers made her skin crawl. Not that she had anything to be ashamed of.

"Do you have anything to read?" he whined.

She had a handful of romance novels on her bedroom dresser, but she sure as hell wasn't giving him those. "Um, I have a biography of Babe Ruth down here, somewhere. In one of these boxes. I don't have a lot of time to read."

He made a disgusted sound and she heard him flop backwards on the stairs. She imagined he was sprawled out, his eyes closed.

She tugged her jersey further down her legs. "Anyway, stop talking. We don't want him to hear you when he comes to the door."

She was rewarded with the sound of a soft snore that she knew was fake. She rolled her eyes.

XXX

Teresa sipped her whiskey and listened to her CD, trying hard not to think about the fact that Jane was hiding on her staircase.

She was buzzed; she could feel that pleasant lightness that came with just the right amount of alcohol. It made her want to go over to him and demand if he'd really just wanted to see her in her nightie. He pretended to be immune, but she'd caught him looking. Little shit.

She danced around the living room, wiggling her ass a little. _You go right ahead and enjoy it_, _Jane_, she thought bitterly. _The closest you'll ever get._

When she heard the knock at the door her heart leapt into her throat.

When she saw it was Carmen, she felt sick.

"Minnelli asked me to check on you," he said in his bland, shrink-voice. "Well, ordered me to drop by actually. Can we talk?"

He followed her into the apartment, and she headed for the desk that held her collection of expired Vicodin and her gun.

"Minnelli?" she asked, intentionally slurring her words.

"He's worried about you," Carmen said. "We all are."

"Because I had a meltdown and got perp walked out of the CBI or cuz I killed a guy?" she asked, weaving a little.

"You killed Mcteer?" There was genuine shock in Carmen's voice.

"How the hell would I know? Maybe?" she replied, picking up her unloaded gun and waving it precariously.

Carmen's eyes went wide. "Teresa, you want to put away your Glock there."

"Very good eye, doctor," she said, waving the gun for emphasis. "A Glock 9 mm. The safety's in the trigger…I mean how stupid is that…is kinda like not havin' a safety at all."

Carmen swallowed. "How about you give it to me?"

She pointed the gun at him, relishing the fear on his face. "Don't look at me like that," she warned. "This is your fault. You unlocked too many things in my head, and now I can't remember. My head is messed up, and it's your fault."

She meant those last words. Jane had told her what he'd suspected—about the Lorazapam—and it made her sick.

"Teresa," Carmen said, holding his hands up plaintively. "Put it down. You need to be calm and put down the gun."

"Calm?" she asked incredulously. "You're right Doc, there is something I want to tell you." Without meaning to, the truth came out in a burst. "I act all calm on the outside, but inside I'm so angry I want to explode. All the misery and pain I see every day makes me want to scream. I lock it down. I lock it down because I have to be calm and rational because that's my job, but I want to pull this trigger. I want to kill."

The well. The well was overflowing.

She remembered Jane was sitting behind her. He was there. It would be okay.

"You're angry," Carmen agreed.

"I think I did it," she whispered. "I think I killed Mcteer." She put the gun to her head, her hand trembling. She felt tears trickle down her cheeks.

"Teresa, if you did it, that's okay," Carmen said. "He was a bad man. No reason for you to hurt yourself or anyone else. I want you to visualize that scene. To remember that moment. You went into the alley after that terrible man. Can you see him?"

"No," she answered honestly. Then "Well, yes. Maybe."

"You see him, you see the dumpsters and the trash and the crumbled up brick, and you see Mcteer, this monster who destroyed so many lives," Carmen said, his voice almost frantic. "It's too much. See it Teresa?"

The doctor had a crazy look in his eyes, a frantic gleam she recognized. Suddenly Teresa wished the gun were loaded.

"…Live it, the garbage, the filthy alley walls, the faded cross there," Carmen continued. He seemed to be far away, not watching her. "God may have mercy on William Mcteer, but you sure as hell wouldn't. He deserved to die. You're still a good person, Teresa, you can get through this."

"The cross," she said, dropping the gun.

"What?"

"The cross." She stopped slurring her words, letting her professional cop voice insert itself. "How did you know about the cross? It was inside the door, only the killer saw."

"Well, Teresa, you told me about the crime scene," Carmen floundered.

"No," she smirked. "I didn't.

She felt a surge of vindication, and also rage. She wanted to beat Carmen bloody with her gun.

"Oh beautiful work, she heard Jane say as he emerged from his hiding spot. "Lovely work, Lisbon."

And just like that it was over. The water receded, and Jane wandered down the stairs, and everything was all right again.

XXX

Much later, when Jane wandered into Lisbon's office and saw Sam Bosco standing a little too close, he had a moment of clarity.

Sam Bosco loved Teresa Lisbon. And he also would have covered up the murder for her.

This little jewel of information was somehow tantalizing—could he use Bosco's affection for Lisbon to get back the Red John case?—and strangely aggravating. The man was married. He shouldn't be sniffing after Lisbon.

"No accounting for taste," he'd teased her, but as he'd backed out of her office Jane had poked his head in the door and watched for a minute, happy to see her happy.

He pictured her legs in that jersey again. But only for a moment.


End file.
